


Scum Lord Zillionaires

by sugarinfurs



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/F, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 21:37:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarinfurs/pseuds/sugarinfurs
Summary: When a Shakespearean marriage weds her divorcee father with the mother of her own girlfriend, Grayson Greene has her life as a young girl turned upside down in an instant, losing her lover and confidant overnight. Now having wasted most of her adulthood on drinking, partying, and drugs, Grayson has found herself at rock bottom - no family, no friends, no closure.Having landed some no-name gig working for minimum wage, Grayson barely scrapes together enough cash to rent and maintain a runty little apartment hardly fit for human consumption. It's not much, but it's hers.Though boring, and by no means luxurious, Grayson's life is slowly on the up-and-up… until one day, while out on a walk, she finds herself staring face-to-face with the gruesome and bloodied aftermath of a vicious hate crime against the LGBTQ+ community.After thoughtlessly bringing home a strange object found at a crime scene and subsequently getting herself framed for murder, Grayson stands at a crossroads - continue to act like everything is normal and risk countless others getting hurt, or throw away her chances at ever leading a normal life and step into a world of conspiracy, controversy, and corruption.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. The faceclaim for this character is Tatiana Maslaney. Thanks!
> 
> In all seriousness there's a pretty heavy slur right towards the end of chapter 1. It would be unfair not to warn you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story begins...

Grayson sat on her bed, nose pressed against the window pane. Each breath left a foggy stain on the glass. She stared at the food cart across the street, smacking her lips at the thought of a piping hot cup of coffee. 

Behind her, on a rickety little table, was her budget cellphone quietly playing music. The _lofi radio_ it was called. Grayson didn’t much recognize the artists by name. It was more a way to pass the time than anything. 

The girl folded her arms over the window sill and rested her chin, staring down at the busy world below her. _The city that never sleeps_ , Grayson thought to herself as she watched strangers scurrying around like little insects. Even on a cold, misty morning in November, temperature barely above freezing, nobody showed signs of slowing down. 

Hoisting herself out of bed, Grayson gave a stretch as she made her way to the kitchen, barely bigger than a broom closet. Her phone continued to bellow out melodies from the other room as she rummaged through a bare refrigerator. She grumbled in annoyance at her lack of choices, but managed to bite her tongue in time. 

That was her #1 rule. No complaining.

Or, as she liked to call it: No fuckin’ bitchin’ in my fuckin’ kitchen.

Just over a month ago, Grayson didn’t even _own_ a refrigerator. She considered having an empty fridge to be a luxury in and of itself. Not a fancy luxury, sure. But it was hers.

Grayson shook around a lonely carton of eggs, brows arching in mild surprise when she actually heard something rattling inside.

The girl wiped down an old frying pan still wet from the sink, scraped down the sides of a clearly spent container of margarine that then went into the pan, cranked on the heat on one of her stove’s only functioning burners, and cracked open her lonesome egg. She lacked a toaster to help round out her meager breakfast, but the bread she did have hadn’t gone moldy yet and that was good enough for her.  
After scrounging around an awfully long time for a single piece of clean silverware, Grayson took her single egg with her ordinary slice of bread and climbed back into bed. She was grateful for her ability to execute a single, if not completely ordinary cooking technique.

As Grayson sat in her bedroom, picking at her meager meal with the barest enthusiasm, she felt… well, not much of anything at all, really.

There was a part of her that _desperately_ wanted to be proud of what she’d been able to scrape together. Of getting off the street and weaning off the drugs and into a home with a bed and a roof over her head. She struggled to imagine her life as something to be proud of.

No more crashing on stranger’s couches or dozing off in public libraries or holing up in underfunded shelters or - 

Grayson imagined that, to an outsider, she might come off as ungrateful and selfish. That she should be happy to have what she has. These people come from a place of privilege.

Because as it so happens to be, her pitiable little meals weren’t something precious; they weren’t some distinguishing characteristic of her ability to make something out of nothing. Nor were they some sort of benchmark signaling her having _made it_ , how things could only go up from here. “It’s not much, but it’s mine,” they’d say in the stories. 

But that was something to be proud of, and Grayson wasn’t feeling very deserving of it at the moment.

And she certainly did not, by any means, feel like she had made it.

Was it guilt bothering her? Knowing how many of her brothers and sisters were down there, rejected and pitied and hungry and alone, while she was up here in her palace of comparative paradise?  
The girl didn’t think it was that, either. Guilt hurts. It leaves a rift in your heart.

Grayson’s heart was a void. Not in a numb way: in a nascent way. She felt as though she had freshly popped into existence in the midst of a blooming adulthood, completely blank from head to toe.  
When every waking moment turns into a wild-goose chase for the next sip, the next hit, the next bump, it becomes harder and harder to keep track of who you are outside the high. You think you like yourself when you’re buzzed. The next minute, maybe not so much. 

Now that Grayson was no longer partying at a brand new house every night, her life was feeling strangely empty. Years of living off the good graces of strangers will do that to a person. Now she had only herself to blame, to converse with, to keep company.

With little fanfare Grayson quietly devoured the rest of her meal, wiping the streaks of runny yolk off her plate with a swipe of the finger. She hoped it would be enough to satiate her the whole day, for fear of having to dip into her dwindling savings.

She temporarily toyed with the thought of splurging on a bag of junk food…

Then the thought of going a single cent over budget caused her anxiety to spike.

Grayson quietly scoffed aloud, to no one at all. The more she dwelt on it, the more it infuriated her.

It wasn’t “brave,” what she was doing. Living paycheck to paycheck, agonizing over every penny spent. Those who were in the glass-half-full camp surely would say, _You’ve done it. You’ve made it. Roof over your head, dirty dishes in the sink… you’re safe_.

Still, something tugged at her.

She was feeling responsible and restless, a weary and almost hollow sensation gnawing at her. It was true, she _had_ made it; she needed something more than waking up, shuffling off to her minimum wage job, and trudging back home every day.

Grayson peeled off all her clothes from the day before and haphazardly pieced together a new outfit on the spot. Acid washed jeans and a tucked-in white tee were her standard fare, though today she tossed on an old frayed leather jacket that was at least fifth-hand. Shoving her phone inside her pocket, Grayson made her way out the door and down her apartment building’s dizzying amount of stairs. 

The girl buried her face against her white wool collar as her feet hit the pavement, groaning at sharp chill of the winter weather. She zipped her jacket up to her neck and hid her hands inside her jeans.

Grayson let herself wander without a single thought on her mind until she found herself in an unfamiliar neighborhood. It was a game she liked to play; get herself completely lost, then try and see if she could find her way back home again.

She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nobody to visit. With no friends, no hobby, no money to spend, what else did she have to waste the days away?

Grayson knew what the answer was, of course. It was always there, dancing in the periphery of her mind. The forever devil on her shoulder.

Smoke a joint. Take a shot. It sounded so easy. Just give in. Why not? It’ll be fun. Something to look forward to. A reason to keep hustling for that next paycheck.

It was true, a part of her _did_ want to recapture that fleeting sensation once again. To feel something other than mind-warping boredom, just once. But it was a slippery slope. Drinking until she ached. Choking down any pill that got handed to her. And she knew that. She kept telling herself that wasn’t the hill to die on. She kept telling herself she couldn’t go back to that life. She kept telling herself she was more than her addiction.

Grayson was convinced that, in all her years of drinking and partying and doing hard drugs, nothing could surprise her anymore.

Deadbeat cops bullying on kids for the color of their skin. Kids getting beat for their preference for gender. Suburbanite yuppies getting blackout drunk and vomiting violently on their first proper taste of booze. Bad trips gone wrong. Overdoses. Rape attempts. Bar fights.

Swathes of people crowding around bloodied crime scenes on the side of the street…

Grayson was so caught up in her own head, she literally ran into someone before she could stop herself. The natural noise of the city had managed to mask the quiet commotion up ahead. Keenly aware she was intruding in an unknown neighborhood, she hesitantly stepped up to the mob of bystanders, peeking her head over that of curious strangers.

It took a moment for her to realize what she was looking at. To understand what had drawn together such a crowd. But the sickening realization of what was happening carved a hollow feeling in the pit of Grayson’s stomach.

It was a bus stop; at least it used to be. A little metal-and-glass structure with one wall and half a roof. Except the glass was dripping with something slick and red, with grimy footprints circling the area before abruptly fleeing the scene. In one corner of the bus stop was an unmoving body, lifelessly slouched on the ground.

A single phrase, two words, scribbled across the glass in sloppy handwriting -

Instantly, Grayson felt her gut churning. She clutched her abdomen on instinct and scrambled backwards, as-of-yet mostly unnoticed by the clamoring crowd. She caught herself yelping as she suddenly lost her footing and felt herself go careening to the asphalt.

Still reeling, the girl righted herself after a moment. She realized it was something she slipped on that caused her fall.

She searched. And searched. And searched. Then, she saw it.

On the ground in front of her was an object - two cylindrical pieces of sharp brown metal that were interlocked together somehow. Stamped on one side was a strange orange symbol which, upon closer examination, revealed itself to be a surprisingly ornate picture of a snake eating its own tail.

Without thinking, Grayson reached out and snatched the thing off the ground. To her surprise the object spread apart on its own, quietly revealing a long and tapered blade that was sticky with something red.

She glanced up at the body at the bus stop, then back down to the _thing_ in her hand, silently connecting the dots.

Grayson’s heart fluttered wildly. The girl had, without a shadow of doubt, just implicated herself in a crime she hadn’t committed. All the weeks she’d spent coming clean, making herself out to be something better than maybe she was meant to be, came crashing down around her like shattering glass. 

But when she cocked her head upwards and looked to the crowd, there wasn’t a soul paying her attention. Nobody so much as even looking in her direction. She had become a ghost, invisible to the human eye, and decided now would be the time to gracefully bow out.

Shakily Grayson rose to her feet before quietly, inconspicuously turning on her heel. Her race home was a blur, relying on pure instinct to guide her before eventually stumbling her way back to her apartment and bursting through the front door.

It wasn’t until she crumpled to the floor did she realize she hadn’t been breathing. Grayson let loose a garbled, choking sob. Now the adrenaline had worn off, and reality was setting in. The girl shuddered as she took in shallow and unsteady breaths.

Grayson squeezed her eyes shut, and as she kept picturing the lifeless body she’d just seen, a selfish, absolute thought reverberated inside her head; “It could have been me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After pulling herself together, Grayson does research on the knife she found at the crime scene.

Grayson wiped tears and snot off her face with the back of her hand. She didn’t know who the person back at the bus stop was, but that didn’t prevent her from crying for them. Grayson choked back another sob, afraid she wouldn’t be able to stop herself if she didn’t pull it together.

Over and over again, Grayson could only process a single thought - it could have been her. It could have been her sitting at that bus stop. Or walking the aisles at a convenience store. Or strolling down the street. Or holding a girl’s hands in public. Or talking on the phone. Or looking at someone the wrong way. Or…

Grayson sat, a defeated mess on the floor. She couldn’t help but wonder, how many times had she seen almost that exact same scene before? She wished, quite dearly, that this was the first. That this was the one and only time she’d stumbled upon the brutal aftermath of a hate crime. 

But she’d be lying to herself.

She wished she could say she never thought she’d end up like that one day.

But she’d be lying to herself.

She wished she could say she never had days where she wished it would happen to her, happy to take the coward’s way out.

But she ’ d be lying to herself.

Grayson remained on the ground until her tears ran dry on their own. She felt drained and alone and vulnerable, curled up on the floor inside her puny apartment.

She thought about that faceless crowd of people, unable to recall if anyone had bothered to call for help. She thought about all the different people she met over the years, how easily it could have been any one of them at that bus stop. She thought about that bizarre knife she found, carelessly tossed to the side after almost certainly being used as a murder weapon.

The knife.

The knife…

The knife!

Grayson scrambled to her feet, suddenly aware of the uncomfortable lump poking through her pocket. In the heat of the moment, she must have brought the thing home with her without thinking.

Without hesitation, the girl flung the knife and sent it skittering across her apartment. She watched as it spun around before stopping with an unceremonious _thud_.

Sick to her stomach, Grayson staggered to the bathroom and half-knelt, half-collapsed. Her insides churned violently. Slight tremors rocked her hands. She didn’t know if she wanted to wretch in the toilet or sit under the shower and wash away the filth she felt. .

She had no blood on her, but she felt disgusting, unclean, guilty.

 _Air,_ Grayson thought to herself. _Let_ _’_ _s get some air._

Making a sudden beeline for her room, Grayson scrambled up her mattress, hoisted open her window, and clambered over the windowsill before dropping down to the fire escape. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on her folded arms. She shook, teeth chattering from the cold, heart thudding in anxiety.

In the distance she could hear sirens whining faintly against the background of the city. She could only hope for the best at this point as they seemed to head in the direction of the accident. 

Hours passed before Grayson reluctantly returned to her apartment.

Work didn’t need her until Monday. It was currently mid-afternoon on Saturday.

Grayson groaned in annoyance as she collapsed face-up onto her bed. She clutched her phone in her hand, staring unblinking at the ceiling. She peeked over the edge; there, lying motionless on the ground, was a knife. The same knife that may or may not had been part of a crime scene. Sitting there. Taunting her. Mocking her. 

Reluctantly, Grayson rolled off the bed and pinched the handle of the blade between two fingers. She gingerly carried the little metal object to her bathroom before dropping it onto the sink. She eyed it expectantly, halfway assuming the thing would come part on its own the way it seemingly did before.

Nothing happened. An encouraging little nudge and… nothing still. 

Grayson reached for her phone, beginning to type away.

There it was! Finally, Grayson managed to figure out exactly what it was she had in her possession. It was something called a “butterfly knife.”

…

She tapped the first video link that popped up.

__

Grayson glanced down at the knife that sat in her sink. And scoffed. As it turned out, it wasn’t so much a weapon than it was some toy for performing tricks with. In other words… It was almost certainly meant to entertain more than cause harm. How brutally, poetically ironic.

The girl was pondering on how to properly dispose of the murder weapon she had casually brought back to her apartment when she remember the strange symbol etched onto it.

…

Grayson squinted her eyes as she scanned her phone for answers. She mouthed a word to herself before trying it out loud. “ _Ouroboros_?” She pronounced carefully. “What in the fresh fuck…”

Eyes glued to her phone, Grayson quietly walked back to her room and plopped down onto her bed. She stared at her screen until her eyes practically glazed over, her fingers scrolling almost endlessly.

No matter how deep she dug, she found absolutely nothing linking this ouroboros deal to what she witnessed back at the bus stop. No mentions of gang activity, no recent posts on social media… Absolutely, positively, frustratingly nothing.

Grayson groaned in misery, sinking into her bed. She let her phone slip out of her hand and thud to the floor. She desperately wanted answers; why this was happening to her, why this happened to the person back at the bus stop, why she was cursed with this godforsaken _thing_ by her side.

Feeling thoroughly defeated, Grayson lackadaisically hung off the side of her bed, idly passing the folded up knife in between her fingers. She didn’t dare attempt any of the tricks and flairs she saw on her phone, and yet an obvious curiosity still tugged at her.

With great care, Grayson gradually peeled the two handles apart and let the long, tapered blade fall out on its own. She watched curiously as the wavy pattern of the blade momentarily catches in the waning afternoon sun.

Grayson held the knife in the air in front of her, staring at it studiously. She glanced over at her phone…

The girl snooped around the best she could in order to find her answer. At some point she managed to sign herself up for some random newsletter, though she was almost positive that the “free” tactical pen-knife-flashlight-bottle-opener hybrid wasn’t actually going to end up at her doorstep anytime soon. She eventually settled on a website that sold the knives in question, intending to manually cross-reference as many as she could against the one she held in her hands.

Which took all of about 15 seconds.

Upon closer inspection, Grayson found out the blade of the knife was made out of something called “Damascus.”

So…

…

__

…

A slew of images matching the blade just like the one in Grayson’s hand flooded her phone.

Out of curiosity…

Grayson’s eyes lit up in surprise. Knives that matched the look and craftsmanship of the one she found ran upwards of hundreds of dollars. “Oh, fuck me,” she cursed under her breath.

…

Grayson rolled her eyes as she found herself typing away at her screen… again.

The closest was 0.9 miles away. Closes at 5:00PM. Her phone’s clock said 4:47PM.

Grayson was out the door before she realized her feet were moving.

After every block or so, the girl found herself throwing her head over her shoulder. But so far, nobody in the city knew she was carrying around a murder weapon on her person.

4:56PM. Grayson stepped foot inside just in time, acutely aware of the stench of stale cigarettes and dusty antiques the moment she opened the door.

Grayson was well acquainted to some _less than legal_ exchanges of money. So when the gruff, greasy, slightly rotund middle-aged owner materialized from somewhere in the back, she was hardly fazed.

“Hey, was wondering if you could take a look at this knife I found?” Grayson announced as she casually strode up to the counter and offered up the object in her hand.

The man behind the counter gave Grayson a quick once over. “No refunds,” the man stated curtly.

Grayson shrugged her shoulders. “Alright.”

She handed the knife over to the man, who slid on a pair of oval glasses attached to a chain that hung from his neck. With surprising ease, he parted the swiveled handles and exposed the blade. “Shit’s expensive,” he commented.

“Yep,” Grayson replied as she bobbed her head up and down in agreement. She somewhat expected the man to keep prying, asking questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. _It kinda just fell into my lap_ was about as far as she had gotten in terms of an alibi. Yet the questions never came. Grayson only hoped she had cleaned the thing well enough to not raise any suspicions.

After a few seconds, Grayson prodded the shop keep. “Look, I’ll take whatever you feel like giving me,” she confessed. “I’m broke as fuck, man. Fifty, a hundred… whatever you’re offering, I’ll take it.”

Behind his counter the shop owner hardly acknowledged Grayson, having taken to typing on his computer. “Damascus, eh?” He commented halfheartedly. “Lemme get a hold one of my buddies so I can have him come down and check it out. See if we can’t give you a fair price.”

Grayson tried to give a smile, yet couldn’t help but swallow dryly. In her experience these people didn’t give a damn what you were trying to sell them, so long as it wasn’t highly dangerous and/or clearly illegal. At the end of the day, business was business. Getting your hands on a knife like this _should_ have been a wet dream come true for a man like him. This wouldn’t be the first (or second, or third, or…) time Grayson parted with something valuable of hers just to make rent or pay for groceries.

“You hear about what happened to that kid?” The owner suddenly piped up, startling Grayson.

The hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle. “No. What kid?” she lied through her teeth, hoping her voice would remain steady enough to avoid raising suspicion.

No way. No way he could know what happened. There were millions of people living in this city. There was no way.

The man’s attention remained focused on his computer screen as he continued to talk. “Yeah, some kid got got pretty bad right in the middle of the street just around the corner. Word is that it’s some kinda hate crime… real fucked up, if you ask me. Poor kid.”

Images of the incident at the bus stop flashed in Grayson’s mind, clear as ever. She struggled to hold back a new wave of fresh tears. “Wow, yeah, that is pretty fucked,” she croaked out.

Grayson felt a tremor in her heart. She was right all along; it _was_ guilt driving her.

The man behind the counter stood from his stool, abruptly breaking away from his computer. “Ah, well…” He scooped up the knife and tentatively held it out towards Grayson. “Buddy will get here soon, sorry for makin’ ya wait,” he mumbled, though he didn’t appear all too concerned. “Mind showin’ me a trick or two while we’re at it? Always wondered how these freaky sumbitches work.”

Grayson stared unblinkingly down at the knife, her jaw tightening. If she didn’t take the bait, she’d expose herself in being suspicious of the man. If she _did_ take it, she’d risk revealing her total ineptitude with the thing. All leading back to one or the other being completely incriminating.

With a hesitant hand, Grayson reached out and clutched the knife from the palm of the man. The second she had her fingers around the thing, she felt something grabbing her by the wrist before twisting her arm in a painfully awkward way. She winced in discomfort as she barely managed to hang onto the knife, eyes leering up to meet the gaze of the man.

“You’re with them fuckin’ alt-right freaks, aren’t you?” The man hollered suddenly as he jabbed his finger into Grayson’s palm. It took a moment of struggling for her to realize he was pointing to the orange mark on the blade’s grip. “Aren’t you?!”

Tugging hard against the man’s grip, Grayson planted her free hand against the counter for leverage. “Fuck are you talking about?” She cried out. “I don’t even know what that shit means!”

The man yanked hard on Grayson’s arm. “Bullshit, I know you’re with that fuckin’ gang,” he yelled back. “Ain’t no one walkin’ around with a fuckin’ butterfly knife just for fun. I see that symbol right there on your fuckin’ knife!”

Grayson’s brain scrambled to register exactly what was happening to her. She watched as the man’s other hand disappeared behind his desk. “I’m not part of a fucking gang!” she protested. Too preoccupied trying to break free from the man’s ruthless grip, Grayson struggled to form coherent enough thoughts to help in her defense.

“Cut the shit, sweetheart. I already called the cops,” the man announced, looking her dead in the eyes. “Hope your ass rots in jail for what you did to that kid.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her frightening encounter with the man behind the counter, Grayson plans her next move.

Grayson froze. Her heart sank, and her stomach churned.

She couldn’t believe what was happening. He was accusing _her_ of the crime? Her, of all people. The lonely little queer that could barely look herself in the mirror. She’s the one responsible for this? “No, I didn’t...” Grayson started to stammer. “This has to be a joke, I-”

“You _what_?” The shop owner spat back. “You can’t bullshit your way out of this one, princess.”

No longer worried with escaping the clutches of the unruly man, Grayson’s mind started to go blank. The confusion, the fear, the sadness, the anger was much too much for the poor girl, and she began to shut down. “No, that’s impossible,” Grayson said. “That’s _impossible_!” She continued, yelling. “I had _nothing_ to do with what happened to that kid, I _swear_!”

The man behind the counter, still roughly holding tight onto Grayson’s arm, simply scowled. He sneered, “Yeah, right. I caught you red handed! You got the murder weapon right there in your hand. You’re busted, kid.” 

Fuck. Grayson looked down. The man was right. She didn’t have an excuse, because she _did_ have the knife in her hand. But she didn’t take it on purpose. And she didn’t have _anything_ to do with what happened! The man had to believe her. “Seriously, dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was walking down the street, I found the knife, that’s _it_ ,” Grayson exclaimed. “And then I took it to your sorry ass, so I can get some goddamn groceries in my fridge, but you went all whacko nutjob on me!”

A blaring of sirens interrupted their little quarrel. Now Grayson was _really_ starting to panic. “Give it up, kid,” the middle-aged man behind the counter told her. “Your sick little game is up. You’re done hurtin’ them kids.”

Now, there were few things in life Grayson had never done.

She’d never broken a bone.

She’d never (technically) gone through a breakup.

And for all her worth, she’d never once seen the inside of a jail cell.

But when Grayson heard those wailing police sirens getting closer and closer, being busted for aggravated assault was about the last thing on her mind.

So she did the only thing she could think of. Grayson reeled back and smashed her forehead square into the nose of the shop owner.

The man stumbled backwards, clutching his face as he howled in anger, letting Grayson go free in the process.

Grayson started to run, but nearly tripped over herself when she suddenly turned on her heel. The knife! She lunged at the counter and scooped it up fast as she could. Grayson stumbled towards the door again and began banging on the handle.

“You stupid bitch!” The man behind the counter roared. Blood was dripping from his nose, staining his shirt wet and red. “Your ass is goin’ to jail for that shit! You hear me? Get back here!”

As Grayson struggled with the door, she realized it wasn’t _actually_ locked; her hands were just shaking so badly she couldn’t get her fingers around the handle. She eventually managed to get it open, bursting out of the store and sprinting out onto the street with knife in hand.

Once she was free, she didn’t _dare_ look back.

When the girl finally stopped running, she found herself lost. Again. She was in another strange neighborhood, a place where no one thought of her as a murder suspect.

At this point, Grayson was over the act of crying. Her teeth chattered and her heart thudded loudly in her chest. She was suddenly aware of how excruciatingly exhausted she was - physically, mentally, emotionally.

She’d always heard of queer people getting killed just for being queer. It was impossible not to. But that was something she heard, something she read, not something she _experienced_. It was horrible news articles trending on her phone. It was heinous crimes against humanity acted upon in countries well over seas. Now it was her reality. 

Grayson never knew much of her LGBTQ+ family growing up. A drag queen performer here and there, other despondent kids huddled inside the same shelter, a one night stand with anyone between those who were “curious about other girls” and those who were deeply rooted in their sexuality.

In a way, Grayson almost felt like she, too, was complicit in that crime she’d just seen the aftermath of. After all, she _was_ cradling a literal murder weapon in her hands. She thought that perhaps, someday, she’ll return to that shopkeeper and beg for his forgiveness. To try and convince him that she was a victim, not a perpetrator.

That knife. That fucking knife. Grayson knew she had to do _something_ with it. But what?

She couldn’t sell it. Not to anyone around here, at least. But it was worth way too much to let it sit at the bottom of a drawer. Maybe she’d find some online seller, ship it off to God knows where, pray that it never comes back to bite her in the ass. Or maybe she could scratch off the symbol that was etched onto it, try her luck at erasing the bad blood it’s brought about.

But she’d know. She’d always remember this day. Finding a dead body on the side of the street. Almost getting her ass beat for a crime she didn’t commit.

And if she pawned off a literal murder weapon to some poor, unsuspecting soul, what kind of karma would follow her around for the rest of her life?

Grayson changed her mind. She wouldn’t sell it. Not after all that’s happened. Not after what it’s done. She couldn’t live with herself. What if it ended up in the very hands of those it sought to destroy? A few bucks wasn’t worth it. An extra month’s worth of rent wasn’t worth it.

One thing was for certain, though.

Grayson needed to find out what that symbol was, what it meant, what it had to do with such a disgusting crime.

Next came the how.

Who did she trust?

Surprisingly little.

But New York is a big city. Got a lot of people. Surely she’d find someone who wouldn’t ask any questions. Right? Or maybe if she could just get far enough away, pick a direction and follow it, she could find someone who hadn’t heard about what happened and could give it to her straight.

And then… what? She sleeps better at night knowing queers like her are getting got on the side of the road in broad daylight?

Hate crimes. They happen everyday. All around the globe.

This, however. This was some crime-scene-investigation-murder-mystery bullshit. The warning written on the glass, the mysterious emblem etched onto a weapon used to commit terrible acts violence, the distraught and traumatized victim left behind.

Grayson gripped the knife tightly in her pocket as she paced up and down random streets. The thrift store owner had seen her face, threatened to get her thrown in jail - would he keep his word? Grayson was used to looking over her shoulder, now it meant more than ever to stay low and keep quiet. She kept an ear out, her body involuntarily twitching at every bellowing siren and footstep behind her.

No matter what course of action she took - keep it, sell it, ditch it - Grayson was now a part of it. She’d been seen with it. Gotten her fingers all over it. And after all the searching around she did on her phone it was in her history, too.

Oh, God. Could they find her that way? See all the searches she’d made, link it to the time of the murder, narrow down her location, find her?

Grayson thought about what she was taught when she was a child and suffered through anxiety. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Deep breath in…

First thing’s first.

One step at a time.

Sell? Keep? Forget?

No. None of the above. Not yet.

Grayson needed to understand first. Understand what it meant. Understand why a seemingly harmless picture on the side of a pocket knife could get someone accused of murder.

This was good. It wouldn’t be easy. But it was something.

Deep breath out… She could do this. She could get through this.

Grayson pulled out her phone;

About half a dozen hits within walking distance. Grayson picked the one with the most generous hours she could find, 7th Ave at Grove Street. As the young woman followed the direction given to her, she kept her eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. Nothing so far.

Grayson didn’t think twice about forking over the rest of her cash so she could blend in with all the other customers. Salted caramel mocha frappe. Medium. No whipped cream.

After settling down in some far off corner, now came the next step. Connect to the store’s cheap free wi-fi. Download a free VPN. And proceed from there. Grayson took a loud slurp off her drink as she waited for the app to install itself.

A few taps later, she was up and running. She started compiling a list thrift stores and pawn shops that were far, far away from… the accident. Checked off all the ones she could get to by bus or subway, never within walking distance. Midtown had a good handful, could knock ‘em all out in one day if she started early.

_Is that what she was calling it now? The “accident?”_

It might not have been her proudest quality, but Grayson knew how to cover her tracks. Searching for hookups with fellow queers on dating apps. Getting her hands on drugs at a party. Acting like a good little straight girl when it came to the not-so-progressive parts of town. For better or for worse, Grayson knew how to keep herself small, quiet, unassuming.

For a brief moment, Grayson considered the possibility that she _was_ overreacting. That all the prowling and sneaking and creeping around was unnecessary. A hyperbolic gesture meant to keep her ass safe.

Grayson took another hit off her drink as tapped away at her phone. All around her, people were doing the exact same - sip, scroll, sip, scroll, sip, scroll. The restaurant was buzzing with activity, and Grayson was just yet another paying customer going about her business.

Ouroboros. Ouroboros. Ouroboros. So far, Grayson could find nothing. Recent posts on Instagram, sorted by new on Reddit, even digging through the depths of Facebook… each and every result brought back positively, ruthlessly, absolutely _nothing_.

With a huff, the brunette slumped against her seat and sank into it. The longer she spent researching this thing, the longer she was at risk. If this ouroboros business _was_ linked to an alt-right group committing hate crimes… was Grayson not simply throwing herself to the wolves at this point? 

Grayson sighed. And stopped. Was she taking this too far? Had her paranoia gotten the best of her? What if… It didn’t matter. What if she _wasn’t_ being watched. 

No, that was impossible.

She had a murder weapon. Of _course_ someone was watching her.

She took her eyes off her phone and glanced at the people all around her. People too self-absorbed to even notice if she had snakes for hair. Grayson scoffed. For once, she was happy to blend into a crowd.

After an hour or so of snooping and sniffing around, it was painfully obvious there was nothing to be found on the internet. Grayson slurped at the last dregs of her coffee as she contemplated her next move. 

She’d have to do things the old-fashioned way. Go back to the bus stop and see what she could find. What is it they say about returning to the scene of the crime?

It’d be crawling with cops, no doubt. And with a homicide like _that,_ feds will be all over it. Lots of red tape to blatantly disregard and step over.

It was settled, then. If Grayson wanted answers, she’d have to _take_ them. 

Grayson tossed her empty cup into the trash on her way out of the restaurant, putting her hood up as she started walking in the direction of the bus stop. 


End file.
